Breathing Is Just a Rhythm
by sunsetdreamer
Summary: One-shots based on tweets that have been borrowed with love from LoversDiction.
1. Chapter 1

This is a birthday fic for JMHaughey, and it is almost a year late. Classic sunsetdreamer.

Jaime, together we have stormed cupcake trucks and glared at RositaLG (which she totally deserved because what kind of person takes someone up a mountain and LIES to them about doughnuts?). I have a sweater of yours that I wear about once a week to work. All these things a good friendship do make. So I'm sorry I failed on the bday front last year. Hopefully this sort of makes up for it.

**Disclaimer**: There's this book called the Lover's Dictionary, and I read it and fell in love with the style. Then I found the Twitter account LoversDiction, which follows the spirit of the book, but tweetstyle. It's a story told through a series of definitions, and RositaLG gave me ten random numbers which were used to pull ten random tweets, and those ten tweets were used as the starting point for B&B snapshots. I guess if I were to be honest I would have to admit that if I could be a real writer, this is the kind of abstract thing I'd like to accomplish, and weaving pieces of it into fic makes me feel sort of close, ha. I hope you're entertained :)

* * *

**deface, v.:** **You can't pass a WET PAINT sign without ripping off the T. It's gotten to the point that I do it when you're not there.**

"So someone dumped the body in the lake-

"River," Brennan interrupts without looking up from the skeleton.

Above her, Booth glares, but he grits his teeth and focuses on his notepad and reminds himself that he doesn't strangle girls.

Not even really, really annoying ones.

"...dumps the body in the river and then waits for Mother Nature to-

"'Mother Nature' is an incredibly elementary - not to mention insulting - manner of referencing a very complex cycle of-

"Can you not?" Booth flips the miniature notebook shut and jams it in his pocket. "Can you just let me think for two damn seconds without talking?"

Immediately, Brennan is not only offended, but angry. Because her time is valuable and he has absolutely no consideration, no _appreciation_, for everything she contributes to these investigations.

On days like today, she really wonders why the hell she ever agreed to work with him again.

He's glowering above her, waiting for a response, and she stands quickly to equalise their heights.

"I suspect that we would both be much happier if you weren't always thinking such _stupid _things aloud."

"I have more important things to focus on right now than whether it's a pond or lake or river or stream or puddle or a goddamn ocean, okay? If that's the sort of useless trivia that gets you off-

"It's _not _useless. Or trivial. I can't work like this! I can't work with people who see no value in knowledge!"

She crosses her arms and Booth's arms automatically fold as well. "Don't even try to tell me that _you_ take it well when you get corrected. Wanna see what I mean? Here; I'll give you some examples. Two birds with one stone, between a rock and a hard place, broad side of a barn, raining cats and dogs... idioms are not that hard! _Kindergarteners _can grasp them!"

He thinks of kindergarteners and his mind instantly jumps to his son. And in the heat of the moment he comes close to stressing this point before the part of his brain not pulsing with irritation remembers that Brennan doesn't know he has a son.

God knows what she would have to say about _that_.

They're staring one another down again and though they haven't been working together especially long, the crime scene techs and cops have learned to give them space when their voices rise.

Unfortunately, today's rookie hadn't received the memo.

"Agent Booth?"

"What?!"

They answer in unison. Again. There will come a time when they find private amusement reflecting on these early moments of unintentional, undesired synchronisation. Today, however, neither of them are particularly amused.

"For the last time, me; Agent Booth. You: squint."

"Stop _calling _me that!"

They've been doing well as partners these last few weeks. Developed an armistice of sorts. They've begun to display a somewhat begrudging gratitude toward one another at the end of cases and they do not, they _do not_ talk about that thing that they had almost done last year.

(though it's there between them, always, in the spaces between their words)

But they have cracks. They are both accustomed to being in control, to being in command, and it's difficult to function as a team when they have been alone in so many respects for the majority of their adult lives.

So they take turns shoving and being shoved in return.

"Just wondering how many more water samples you'd like us to take, sir," the tech speaks hesitantly.

They hear him but they don't process the words right away, and there's this awkward second where the three of them simply stare at one another before Brennan demands an absurd quantity of water that will of course pose a maximum inconvenience to every cop and technician on the scene.

Booth is still annoyed, but he doesn't interrupt while she gives her orders and he backs her up in no uncertain terms when he catches the technicians exchanging looks of disbelief. Because she's his partner and regardless of how he feels about her in this very moment, this is something he already just _does_. God knows why.

It takes another two hours, but eventually the crime scene gets sorted and the body - plus a million tons of _river _water - is shipped off to the Jeffersonian.

The silence that begins the moment they shut themselves in his SUV is only broken by Brennan slamming the door as hard as she can when he drops her off at the lab.

* * *

The weekend comes and with it, forty eight straight hours with his son. Booth leaves work more-than-a-little-early on Friday so that he can pick Parker up from his half day at school; it's not something he can manage every visit – out of so many things he loves about his job, the inconsistency in hours is something he could often do without – but he wants to start this weekend in particular well before the usual dinner time. He's missed the last two visits with Parker – once because of work, once because of Rebecca – and though they've talked on the phone, he can never banish the crippling fear that his son is one missed visit away from forgetting him.

He holds his breath when he turns into the brightly decorated classroom, though he doesn't realise this until his four year old screams _daddy_ at the top of his lungs and charges at him full force.

Booth releases the breath in the form of a laugh and lifts the small boy off his feet before he has a chance to crash and injure himself. "Hey, Buddy!"

"I missed you." Parker keeps his talon-like grip on Booth's suit jacket, but he pulls back far enough to look his father in the eye and tilt his head accusingly. "It's been _forever._"

Booth's throat tightens and he clears it gently. "I know, bub. But we've got the whole weekend, right? It's gonna be great. Knuckles."

Parker grins and untangles one hand just long enough to pound Booth's outstretched fist enthusiastically. "Let's go!"

They stop at the apartment first. Booth changes and then bites back a smile when Parker tears through his overnight bag until he finds an outfit that is somewhat similar.

"Can we go see the fish?"

"How about we eat something first, huh?"

"But I'm not _hungry_, dad." He grabs Booth's hand and tries to pull him toward the door, struggling comically when Booth doesn't budge.

"Come on; we'll be quick. And then we can spend as much time looking at the fish as you want, okay?"

Parker pouts for a minute but Booth has learned that _I'm not hungry _actually means _I'm not hungry right now, but I will be in twenty minutes and I may have a meltdown if my needs are not promptly met._

Yes. He may only get to spend every other weekend with Parker, but he's learned so much. He can recognise when he's tired, when he's sick, when he's hungry or upset or over stimulated and anything in between. And as long as this stands, Booth can try to convince himself that it's enough.

(though it really doesn't ever, ever feel like enough)

They eat grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup and though Parker makes a valiant attempt to inhale his food and hurry them along, he sidetracks himself so often by talking that the whole process of getting out the door is guaranteed to take twice as long as it theoretically should.

"How come there's no whales at the aquarium?"

"Whales need a lot of room, Parks. There wouldn't be enough space for one at the aquarium."

"I watched a movie called 'Free Willy' with mom one time."

He jumps out of his seat, stares up at the ceiling and throws one hand up in the air over his head in what Booth views as a fairly impressive imitation of the classic movie cover.

"Did you know that an Orca whale and a Killer whale are the same thing, daddy?"

"Yeah? That's pretty cool."

"They're my favourite kind of fish."

"Whale," Booth corrects absently.

He freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth and wonders where that had come from. It's not the kind of small detail he would generally feel any need to correct.

Parker frowns, evidently as thrown by the interruption as his father. "It's the same thing."

Booth shakes his head. "Whales are mammals. They have live babies instead of laying eggs, and they breathe air just like people. A fish is..." his voice trails off as he tries to remember the specific category 'fish' falls under, and eventually he shrugs. "A fish is a fish."

Parker's eyes narrow suspiciously as he climbs back into his seat and takes a hearty bite of his sandwich. "How come a whale has to be a mammal but a fish gets to be just a fish?"

Booth is still trying to pinpoint what prompted him to go down this road in the first place instead of just letting his kid be a _kid _and talk, and when he takes too long to answer the question, Parker issues a louder demand for his attention.

"Daddy? Daddy _why_?"

"Why? Because... because..." he sits up in his seat as a conversation with his partner trickles into memory. He is apparently not nearly as good at tuning her out as he thinks he is. "... because fish are paraphyletic organisms. And it's a big word to remember, so we just say fish."

The fact that he can't, to save his life, actually remember what 'paraphyletic' even means is beside the point.

"Par-a-

"Paraphyletic."

"Paraphyletic." The word emerges clumsily, but correctly. "Paraphyletic and mammals."

"Right," Booth nods with a smile.

Parker takes another few spoonfuls of soup as he absorbs this and then he lets the utensil rest in the bowl with a small clink. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, buddy."

"You're way smarter than mommy's boyfriend."

Booth grins widely and concludes that maybe, every so often, the nonstop lecturing he endures from Dr. Temperance Brennan has its benefits.

"Well, your daddy works with scientists, remember? They know all sorts of cool things."

"Can I meet the scientists?"

Booth thinks of Brennan; of her lack of an edit filter and her penchant for saying anything and everything he _never _wants her to say. Of the bug and slime guy and his constant ranting and raving. The artist who is forever undressing him with her eyes without even having the decency to try and hide it. By the time his thoughts drift to his partner's weirdo intern and his constant staring, Booth's mind is made up.

No. No way in hell is he bringing his child anywhere near those people. Five minutes would cause enough damage for Rebecca to never let him keep Parker again.

"We'll see," he answers nonchalantly. "Maybe."

"I know another mammal," Parker states confidently.

"What?"

"A cat."

"That's right."

"You know what else is a mammal?"

"What?"

"A dog."

"You got it, pal."

"You know what else is a mammal?"

"Tell me."

"A lion."

"Yep."

"You know what else is a mammal?"

Booth resigns himself to the fact that the next hour is going to pass with Parker working his way through every animal he knows.

And as they step into the hallway half an hour later, Parker holding his hand and skipping alongside him _still _spouting off mammals, Booth has never been happier.

* * *

Monday is bittersweet. He has fresh memories of _fifty three_ straight hours spent with his son but he also bears the knowledge that it will be nearly two weeks before the cycle repeats itself (he does not dwell on the ever-present possibility that it will be even longer).

But he's working on being a better person. On being less angry. So even though it would be so easy to spend this first day after a visit cutting everyone around him to pieces, he buys two coffees and shows up unannounced on Brennan's doorstep.

The door swings open and there she is, in all her brilliant (and annoyed) glory. "Booth, what are you doing here?"

"Picking up my partner and bringing her with me to talk to our vic's family."

Brennan eyes him warily. "You're taking me with you. Without me asking."

"Yeah, Bones, that's what I just said."

"Don't call me Bones," she insists for the millionth time, snatching the proffered cup from his hand.

"You're cranky this morning."

"I am not 'cranky'."

"Usually it's _you _getting _me _all cranky. This is an ironic turn of events."

It's an intentional mistake, but she doesn't know him well enough to recognise these yet. Though she will. Sooner than either of them think.

"There is nothing ironic about what you just said. There are three accepted forms of irony; I'm assuming you were attempting situational irony, however-

She cuts herself off and glares at him, lifting her chin defiantly as she waits for him to snap at her.

Booth casually presses the button for the elevator and takes a sip of his coffee. "Please; go on. Positional irony?"

"Situational irony." He's _doing _something. And though it bothers her a great deal that she can't quite figure it out, she shelves this irritation and finishes her thought. "And while I suppose you could form a case in support of your statement..."

Brennan's voice becomes a comforting sort of background chatter before they even reach the ground floor. Booth is enjoying it, but she comes to yet another abrupt stop when they reach his vehicle and begins glaring at him anew.

"What now?"

"You're being very..." she struggles briefly to find the right word, "... tolerant. Why?"

"I just had a good weekend, Bones. That's all."

Brennan accepts this tentatively. Mainly because doing anything else would mean acknowledging impulses based on something outside of the facts. And she won't give him the satisfaction.

But he continues being nice to her, even after she chastises him for opening her car door. Even after she tells him _again _that her name is not Bones. Even after she says something (evidently) inappropriate to his boss and even after she leaves him alone with Zack while she takes a call that (admittedly) could have waited.

And she moves from tentative acceptance to just... acceptance.

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you had a good weekend," she offers somewhat awkwardly.

"Thanks, Bones. Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

**delude, n.: You argue that people can fundamentally change, and I say I agree, if you strike the word fundamentally.**

She picks her daughter up at precisely 6:00pm, and it doesn't occur to her that the time she had been given over the phone a week earlier was meant to be interpreted in a much broader fashion. Not until Christine brings it up, anyway.

When Andrea's mother answers the door, Brennan is polite and she smiles and though meaningless small talk remains something she views as a waste of time, the woman brings up an upcoming fundraiser at their daughters' school, and it's a topic Brennan can discuss easily enough while she waits for Christine to gather her things and reappear in the front hall.

But Christine drags her feet. After two prompts she's still puttering about the ground floor saying her goodbyes and in the meantime a few of the other mothers come in from another room, and the conversation – the whole process of picking up her child and leaving – takes so much longer than what Brennan believes to be necessary.

Christine seems content enough once they're finally in the car and pulling out of the driveway, but before Brennan can even turn off of the street, she begins idly kicking the seat in front of her.

"How come you always come get me so early?"

Brennan glances in the rear-view mirror and a slight crease forms between her brows. "I wasn't early. I was on time."

"On time _is _early."

"No," the crease deepens, "'early' would indicate that I arrived before the usual or expected time. There was an appointed time, and I arrived at the appointed time; on time. Please stop kicking the seat."

Christine obediently stills her legs. "All the other kids are still there."

"Oh." Brennan takes another look in the rear-view mirror and gauges her daughter's expression. "Would you like me to take you back?" she guesses.

"That's okay."

"Are you upset?"

Christine tilts her head and thinks this over. "No. I was just wondering."

Brennan accepts this and considers the subject closed. Though she makes a mental note to arrive approximately fifteen minutes _late _the next time to see if this fits more appropriately into playdate norms.

"If you stayed with the other parents, we could just leave when everyone else leaves," Christine suggests helpfully.

They come to a stop at a red light, and Brennan turns in her seat. "I wasn't aware you wanted me to stay, Christine. If it makes you more comfortable, I will certainly-

"I don't need you to stay with _me_. But the other moms play together so that they don't get bored. Don't you get bored without me when you're not at work?"

Brennan smirks. "While I appreciate your company, I have no shortage of things to keep me busy. I also have your father; I am never bored."

"Everybody else's mom stays."

"They do?"

The light changes colour and Brennan is forced to turn back to the road in front of her. She's made a number of discoveries in the year that has passed since Christine began school, and the new sets of social codes she faces are made all the more frustrating by the fact that she doesn't need to _try _in most social gatherings anymore. Not at work. Not with her friends. Certainly not with Booth. And when she realises she's made mistakes where parental expectations are concerned – where _Christine _is concerned – she feels as if she's travelled back in time ten years to a version of herself who was fine, then, when her life was her own, but has since been left behind.

"Yep." Christine nods and then begins kicking the back of the passenger seat anew. "But they don't have daddy. Maybe that's why."

"It's possible," Brennan agrees absently. She looks in the mirror for the umpteenth time. "I love you, Christine."

"Love you too," Christine returns automatically. She shifts in her booster seat and the next time Brennan looks back at her, she's sound asleep.

* * *

The party is her idea.

Booth keeps coming back to this and it baffles him each and every time. There's a part of him that continues to think the whole thing is a joke; it's a little elaborate for Brennan, but when he considers the abstract ways she occasionally approaches things, he knows almost anything is possible.

"Run this by me again?"

He moves out of her way as she turns from the oven to the counter and deposits a hot pan. He's lived with her long enough to know that if he doesn't move, she will simply try to move through him. '_Two objects cannot occupy the same space'_ preachings be damned.

"We're having a party."

"No. I mean, yeah, I got that part. I'm talking about the guest list. That would be the part I'm not understanding. The part where you said your best friend isn't invited."

"Angela does not wish to come."

"You invited her and she's not coming?"

"No, I didn't invite her. And then yesterday I tried to – because she is my best friend – and she declined. She assured me that it is okay for me to host social gatherings without her, and that I do not need to feel any guilt."

She won't stop moving as she's talking to him and it grates on his nerves a little because it takes so much longer for him to figure out what's going on in her head when he can't look her in the eye.

"Are you two fighting?"

"No!" Brennan slams another tray on the counter and Booth finally gets his good look at her face. "Sometimes you are really very terrible at listening."

"What? I'm not- it was a reasonable question, Bones."

"I have come to enjoy parties. We have parties all the time, Booth."

"Yeah, parties with Hodgins and Angela and Cam and people we _like_. Not random parents from Christine's school. How often do you even talk to these people?"

"_All the time_! And you aren't invited either."

"Wait a second, you're uninviting me? I ask one question and you un-invite me from a party happening in my house?"

"Our house."

"You can't do that."

"Well..." she lets her voice trail off and shrugs. Indicating that she very well can and has done exactly that.

"I'm sorry; I won't ask any more questions." He glances between her and the tray, calculating the distance before shooting out a hand, snatching up a mini pastry and cramming it into his mouth before she has time to stop him. Though she still tries. "Now will you re-invite me?"

Brennan glares. This is one of those days she genuinely does not feel like playing games and his disarming smile – taking all of this so lightly while she does not – pisses her off.

"I said no, Booth. There won't be any other men around anyway. You would not have fun."

And now they're back at the part he still finds so puzzling. Because while there is nothing cold about his partner, while she is capable of being charming and funny and entertaining when she sets her mind to it, while she has friends, she does not have girlfriends. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Not outside of Angela. He has come home to the two of them (plus Cam, on the odd occasion) already well into the wine and giggling in his living room, but he has never see her do _this_.

"So where am I supposed to go?"

"I don't care, Booth. As long as you're not here." She finally pauses, and he swears he can see the air and objects around them still reverberating in the aftershock of her whirls of activity. "That was mean. I didn't intend to sound so..."

"It's okay, Bones."

"I don't think it even quite counts as a party," she speaks quickly in her efforts to be placating. "I believe the correct word is 'playdate.'"

"Kids are coming?"

"Yes." Brennan nods eagerly.

Christine's playdates generally consist of his daughter and one or two of her friends racing around the house for a few hours before they're either returned home or collected by a parent. And so, in keeping with everything else she's said in this conversation, his partner's explanation creates a lot more questions for him than answers.

"What's going on with you?"

Most of the teasing tone disappears on a dime and Brennan chooses to respond by not responding. By pretending she hasn't heard the question and smoothly sliding the cooled pastries form their racks. And this time, when he removes one from the bowl, she doesn't bother trying to stop him.

* * *

She approaches this particular social gathering the way she would a benefit dinner. She pretends Cam has made a nuisance of herself stressing upon all of them - especially Hodgins - the importance of not screwing this up. She doesn't typically enjoy benefit dinners, but they are a part of her job and she is very, very good at her job.

She's the best in her field and she's the best parent that she can be to her daughter. If part of her job as a parent involves socialising with women with whom she shares few common interests, she can (she will) do it and she can (she will) succeed. This is the thought that gets her through all of the prep work. Through casual invitations extended in the parking lot of her daughter's school, through the crowded grocery store, through the hot kitchen and through Booth being annoying as hell. It gets her through standard greetings (_let me take your coat; make yourself at home_) and a not-entirely-painful conversation that involves shoes.

(She's been friends with Angela long enough that most conversations involving shopping are relatable, even when they're boring)

Someone – _Jackie_, Brennan repeats to herself, her name is _Jackie_ – comments on a relic stored on a high shelf, and Brennan jumps into an enthusiastic, fast paced history of the artifact before she notes the polite but puzzled expressions that indicate she's once again managed to find that line which separates her from normal, and she's crossed it. She mumbles her last sentence to a close and then rolls her eyes into her wine glass. And she allows herself to wish Angela was around to pay attention to the chatter picking up around her so that she wouldn't have to.

But this is why she hadn't asked Angela to come over in the first place.

"You have a beautiful home, Temperance."

Despite her best efforts, she's stopped paying attention, and Brennan tries not to visibly startle as she's pulled from her thoughts and back into the conversation. "Thank you."

"The decor is..." Sarah – a woman Brennan usually remembers as 'Emily's mom' – takes a moment to weigh her words. "...unique. In a very pleasing way," she adds quickly.

Brennan stares a fraction of a moment too long as she tries to measure the sincerity of the statement. Then she smiles. "Booth and I have very different tastes. And we are not always... especially good... at compromise."

The four other women laugh and Brennan falls back into her role as host, though she can't help thinking that this is not nearly as fun as hosting for the team.

But the coworkers who have become her friends, her family, set high standards, and when she glances at the staircase in time to see Christine leading the charge back up to her bedroom, she understand that not all friends have to be family. She can (she will) do this as often as is necessary. For Christine. Because while she still believes, honestly and wholeheartedly believes, that differences are to be celebrated, that people who are exceptional and unique and gifted as she is, as her daughter is, should not have to put themselves in boxes for the comfort of other people, Christine is social and balanced, and she will not take that from her. Over something this small, she will not force her fights to become her daughter's fights.

"Heaven help the two of you when you decide to move."

Brennan stiffens immediately at the thought. "Move? Why would we move?"

There's a shrug. "Things change. If you and Seeley have more children..."

Brennan laughs, and though she realises that this may not be the appropriate reaction, the combination of Booth's first name and the thought of leaving this house makes it impossible for her to withhold it. "We are not moving," she shakes her head. "I love this house. We built this house."

On the tip of her tongue are stories of those hellish weeks of repairs and arguments and trying to navigate narrow paths between boxes while well into her ninth month of pregnancy. Of the first time she was able to walk through the house without the thought of falling through weak floors hanging over her, and it truly felt like home.

Instead, she gives another resolute shake of her head. "We are not moving."

"You know who just moved? Lisa."

Brennan doesn't recognise the name, but judging from the murmur of agreement from everyone else seated around the island, she's the only one.

"Wait until you see the colour she painted the living room; it's blinding. And cramped, compared to her old place."

"Well, downsizing is inevitable when your husband leaves you for your daughter's dance teacher."

"Can you believe it? Though, when you let your husband pick up your child from a class with a teacher who looks like _that_..."

"Booth picks Christine up from a number of her activities. All the time," Brennan interjects with a frown. "I don't understand the relevance."

The look she receives in return is one of uniform pity, and she fights back the surge of anger she can't help feeling when people act as if _she _is the one with the problem when she knows otherwise.

"You don't dangle that kind of temptation in front of a man, honey. Most of them can't help themselves."

She accepts without thought the _honeys _and _sweeties _Angela throws her way. But there is something so condescending about it this time, Brennan is put further on edge.

"I suppose Booth is just better than most men," she replies simply. Then she sits back in her chair and maintains eye contact, challenging anyone to attempt to refute this.

Someone changes the subject, and this time Brennan doesn't bother mentally recalling her name.

* * *

Booth comes home just before Christine's bedtime. He's spent the majority of his day catching up on paperwork, and though working at the office on a Saturday would never be his first choice, it's relieving – in a workaholic-seeming way he would never admit to his partner – to have a few extra hours to get all the little things done that prove difficult when one has a young child.

But he's happy as always to come home to his daughter.

"Did you have fun today?" he asks as he pulls up the comforter.

"Yes," Christine confirms.

"How about your mom? She have fun?"

"I think she was bored."

"Bored?" Booth's eyebrows go up. That hadn't been on the list of answers he had considered. "Why?"

"Angela wasn't here. Mommy is never bored with Angela." She pauses. "Or you. You are not boring, daddy."

"Glad to hear it," Booth chuckles.

"What did you do today?"

"I went to work," he sighs dramatically.

"On Saturday? Without mommy?"

"Yes, without mommy. You know, you never sound this surprised when your mother goes to work without _me_."

She shrugs. "You need more help than mommy does."

"She tell you that?"

"Yes."

"And you believe her?"

"Mommy's very smart."

"Yeah yeah." Booth rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss her forehead. "Goodnight, baby."

"Night."

* * *

He finds Brennan in the living room and touches her arm as he passes into the kitchen.

"How did it go?"

"I'm a terrible mother."

Booth freezes. "Okay." He retrieves her glass, the wine, and decides his own drink can wait. "I'll bite. What happened?"

"Nothing _happened_," Brennan huffs, inching over to make room for him on the couch. "I just feel that I will require a lengthy recovery period before I am ready to do this again."

The wine goes down fast enough for Booth to raise an eyebrow before he refills her glass with a liberal hand.

"That bad?"

She takes another drink before answering him, sighing as she swallows and relaxes into the couch. "I did not particularly enjoy myself. They are... cruel. I don't even think that it's intentional; they just can't seem to help themselves."

Booth tenses and studies her face carefully. "What did they say to you?"

"Nothing," Brennan reassures him. She places her glass on the coffee table and gives him a lopsided smile. "What would you do, Booth? Have them arrested?"

"If I had to," he mutters stubbornly. He knows that she doesn't always require his protection. And yet... "Like you said, Bones. People can be cruel."

"They think I'm weird," she says factually.

"You're not weird."

"I don't care what they think."

Her tone is as offhanded and candid as it has ever been and Booth continues to be puzzled by all these events that _just don't make sense_.

"Why are you frowning?"

"I'm not; I'm just trying to catch up to you, Bones. The usual."

"I don't understand."

"That makes two of us." He takes a swallow of her drink. He's not as partial to red wine as she is, but it's there in front of him and his hands need something to do. "What was the point in doing all this, then? Was it an experiment? You making sure you're still 'you' enough to not have anything in common with the soccer moms?"

Brennan shifts indignantly. "No, Booth. I don't care. I don't believe I can express exactly how little I care. But it matters to Christine. It seems important to her that I bond with her friends' parents, but I do not like them."

He shrugs. "You're making too big a deal of this. She told me earlier that she thinks you would have enjoyed yourself more had Angela been here."

"She said that?" He nods his confirmation and she shakes her head. "I need to figure out a way, Booth."

"Invite Angela next time. Drink more."

She studies his face and tries to determine exactly how seriously she is meant to take this suggestion. "Those solutions are not acceptable. I'm capable of improving under my own power, thank you."

"She's barely six, Bones. She couldn't care less who your friends are."

"She _notices _things, Booth. And it's your fault."

"What?"

Her volume rises to compete with his. "She has genetically inherited many of our traits; being annoyingly perceptive is one of your traits."

"Annoyingly perceptive. That's your official, scientific conclusion."

"I stand by my reasoning."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Christine's needs are changing, and it stands to reason that I should be willing to change with her. For her. She deserves that much."

Booth begins to wish that he had taken the time to pour his own drink. The thought of change – in the aggressive, drastic fashion he reads in her tone – sets him on edge.

"You already give her everything she needs."

"People change, Booth. I've changed. I can continue changing."

"No, people evolve; you taught me that. Evolve, Bones. But don't change. Not even for Christine."

"Evolution and change are fundamentally the same thing, Booth."

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm saying," he says seriously. "I love you. I love _you_. And so does Christine. We're too old to be changing."

It's a rational argument, and Brennan still finds these infinitely more comforting than any other. And so she will think about this and regroup, later, but for now, she can let it rest.

"They weren't _entirely _unbearable," she admits, grudgingly. "There were a few instances in which we connected on superficial levels."

At this, Booth breaks into loud laughter. "Small talk? The small talk was the part you found easiest to tolerate?"

"Why are you laughing at me?"

"You really did have a bad day." He continues to laugh, but his eyes are flooded with sympathy and he pours more wine in her glass. "You've earned this."

"I may require something stronger," Brennan says dryly.

He presses a hard kiss into her hair. "You're the only one I share the good stuff with."

"I know." There's a smugness to her tone and it makes Booth laugh yet again, and his laughter is infectious, so she laughs too. "You may stay the next time. And Angela."

"Because we make everything fun?"

"Because you make everything... bearable," she clarifies.

"I'll take what I can get."

She watches the movement of his throat as he takes another sip of her wine, and something about the way this ordinary scene fits together – her, him, the ritual of wine and conversation in their living room – strikes a chord in her. But she keeps this rush of sentiment to herself. Because while they have so much that is theirs, the things that are hers continue to carry their own significance.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to move."

Booth withdraws slightly at the force in her tone. "Who said anything about moving?"

"I'm just stating my position. For the record."

"After all the work we did? Hell, Bones. We're dying here. I mean it. Right here in this spot."

"I'm serious."

"Me too. You try and make me move, this relationship is over."

Brennan laughs. "I'm glad we agree."

"On the things that matter? Always."

She raises an eyebrow skeptically.

"Eventually," he amends. "Usually. Sometimes."

"That is far more accurate."

"Not so much romantic, though."

"I don't mind." She kisses his cheek. "Thanks, Booth."

He's come to learn that he may not always know exactly why she's thanking him, or what sets certain conversations apart from others they've had that fall along the same lines. But his answer is the same regardless.

"You're welcome, Bones. Anytime."


	3. Chapter 3

So I have a visitor this week *glances to my right (literally) to stare surreptitiously at RositaLG* and though I promised her ALL the fic upon her arrival, I've delivered on none of the fic. I'm trying to make up for it. This one falls outside of canon and it will quickly become pretty obvious why... I wrote most of it in a fit of whimsy amidst season 6 angst, and it's been sitting on my hard drive waiting for a home ever since. So I guess just... think pre-Change in the Game-y thoughts. Or something.

* * *

**denoument, n.: You are going to have to write your own dialogue for this one.**

What they have is still new. So new it's still a secret. Somehow.

Wendell almost catches them kissing in her office and thank God Booth's office door is locked that time Sweets tries to come barging in. But as he sits in Brennan's living room flipping absently through a journal he's picked up off the coffee table, he chooses to believe they've earned this privacy. No matter how temporary it will inevitably prove to be.

Eventually he gives up the ridiculous pretense of reading – much less understanding – the work in his hands and throws it back on the coffee table.

"Bones! Would you hurry up already?"

"Booth, if you yell at me one more time, you will regret it."

Her voice is muffled by the bedroom door but Booth is silenced.

For about fifteen seconds.

"If you don't come out, I'm coming in."

"Open this door, and I will immediately change into something considerably more comfortable and work on my novel for the rest of the weekend."

Booth stills for a moment as he tries to determine how serious she is. Ultimately, he takes her words as a challenge and jumps off her couch, tearing down the hall and flinging open her bedroom door in a matter of seconds.

"Booth!"

Brennan tries her best to sound commanding but the truth is, his entrance is an expected counter to her words and this had occurred to her the moment she had heard her statement aloud. So she laughs when he brings her down onto her mattress in a calculatedly clumsy tackle, and savours the crushing weight of his solid frame on top of her.

"I'm going to start all over," she threatens.

"You'll do no such thing. Get your beautiful ass in gear and let's get out of here. I have never once in eight years seen you take so long to get ready."

"Angela claims that making a date 'wait' heightens anticipation and sexual desire."

"The only thing it heightens is annoyance, okay? I hate waiting."

She squirms provocatively under his body. "You don't have to wait..."

He narrows his eyes and rests a little more of his weight on her hips to stop her movement. "Knock it off. We're going out, Bones."

She frowns, but she's never been one to give up easily. "I'm not wearing any underwear."

There's no attempt to be seductive with the words. It's a nonchalant, nearly offhanded statement and _that _is the part that ultimately has Booth clenching his fists to keep from tearing the dress off of her right then and there.

"Why can't you ever just play fair?"

"The concepts of 'fair' and 'unfair' hold no bearing on facts, Booth. And the fact is, I'm not wearing-

He silences her with a hard kiss and then jumps off the bed before he loses the last of his willpower. "Grab your coat. And for God's sake put on some panties."

Brennan gracefully steps onto the floor and smoothes her hair. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She steps around him into the hallway – though he can't help grabbing her arm and trying to steer her back in the direction of the bedroom – and they're nearly at the front door by the time she decides to answer him.

"I just don't _feel _like it."

Booth stops in his tracks as she throws his words from a few short hours ago back in his face.

"_Can't we stay in and order pizza like last weekend?"_

"_I don't __**feel **__like it, Bones. Put on a dress; we're going out."_

"_Why do I have to wear a dress?"_

"_Because- you know what? I'm not doing this with you. Put on pants for all I care. We're going out."_

He shakes his head and opens the door, and Brennan grins smugly as she steps past him.

"Funny. You're so funny."

Brennan links her arm through his and drops her head on his shoulder. "Are we going to the diner?"

"Dressed like this? No way, Bones."

"An Opera?"

"Not in this lifetime," Booth mutters.

"Is it somewhere we've been before?"

"Just get in the elevator, will ya?"

* * *

They end up in a place that is different in every sense of the word. It's out of their way, and it's real in a very 'couple' sort of manner; especially when compared to all the places they've been – the things they've done – since becoming _more _that haven't been markedly different from when they were 'just' partners.

And it's... nice. They laugh a lot. Sometimes Brennan really sees, in other people observing them, the confusion she so often feels when she listens to the average person speak. And she understands that there is something very different about the way that she and Booth communicate. It's comforting. Thrilling. Sometimes she's so overwhelmed by the weight of these revelations, all she can do is laugh.

And she's glad, so glad, that even considering the parts of them that they have yet to sort out, there are no more lines.

"Dessert?" Booth winks.

"We had dessert, Booth." She studies his face and then her own eyes light up in understanding, and she leans over the table toward him conspiratorially. "Dessert is a euphemism for sex."

She's still grinning in an incredibly self-pleased fashion when their phones go off almost simultaneously. And they both know what that means.

Brennan's attention shifts immediately and Booth allows himself a small sigh before following suit, though it's somewhat convenient when his boss rattles off an address in his ear and he realises it's less than ten minutes from where he is now. The bill is quickly paid and they're (mostly) all business by the time they reach the SUV.

"Do you need us to go back to your apartment so you can grab your gear?"

"That won't be necessary," Brennan shakes her head. "I have an extra kit in your trunk."

He can't keep the surprise out of his tone. "You keep a kit in my trunk?"

"Of course I do. It's only responsible, Booth. Given the amount of time we spend together."

"How come I've never noticed it?"

"How often do you take inventory of what's stored in your trunk?"

Booth concedes to this and taps impatiently on the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change. "I suppose you've got boots and a squint suit back there too?"

"Of course. Though I regretfully do not have a change of clothes. However, my field gear is well insulated; I don't believe I'll get cold."

He nods along with this before he really thinks about what she's just said. "Wait, you can't wear your suit without clothes on, Bones."

"I can't put it on over my dress, Booth. It would be terribly uncomfortable."

"But you'll be _naked_!"

"You can't tell what I wear underneath my jumpsuit. For all you know, I'm always naked."

"You don't have any underwear!"

Brennan can't help but laugh at his scandalised tone. "You're being ridiculous."

"Can't you just wear what you're wearing and, I dunno, step carefully? Maybe it won't be that bad."

"It's always 'bad'. There would be no reason to involve me if it wasn't 'bad.'"

They arrive at the crime scene and Brennan _does _leap out of the vehicle without changing. But it has nothing to do with Booth and everything to do with the moron she spots mishandling the remains she already considers hers. Booth is left to throw the truck in park and scramble after her, and what she's wearing takes a backseat as they divide and conquer.

He's minding his own business, securing their crime scene and keeping an eye out for backup, when Brennan hits his arm with a closed fist.

"Ow!" He exclaims, more out of surprise than anything else. "What the hell was that for?"

"_I _wanted to stay home tonight," she hisses. "_You _made me get all dressed up, and now Angela is going to give me the first degree when she sees me. She always knows when I am lying!"

"Third degree. And just… tell her you were on a date." Booth shrugs nonchalantly.

Brennan tilts her head and fixes him with an incredulous stare. "You _have _to know that Angela will never accept that as an answer. She will want to know where I met him and what he looks like, she will want sexual details…"

"Whoa whoa whoa, sex? On the first date, Bones? You didn't have sex with _me _on the first date."

"Well it wasn't for lack of trying, Booth," Brennan retorts with exasperation, setting a hand on her hip. "_You _were the one who insisted on waiting. Although what possible difference those five additional days made, I will never know."

"Okay, we're losing focus here."

"Through no fault of mine," Brennan mutters.

"See, that right there? What you're doing? Not helpful."

"I'm just saying."

Booth exhales loudly. "Fine. What do you suggest we tell Angela?"

"I don't know, Booth!" Brennan loses the last of her patience. "That's why I asked you! You are the expert liar!"

"Excuse me? I am _not _a liar."

"I meant it as a compliment."

"Well it didn't seem like one."

"See? Every time we fall off topic, it is because _you _latch on to some trivial comment and insist on taking it further. I'm changing. Now," she says definitively.

She steps around him – again – and he's left trotting after her – again – and though he wouldn't dream of admitting it aloud, he too is thinking that this whole situation would have been far less complicated had they stayed in and ordered pizza.

* * *

The team is on the scene for less than five minutes before Angela beelines toward the body and the anthropologist leaning over it.

"Who's the guy?"

"The remains are female."

"I mean _your _guy."

Brennan nearly drops the brush in her hand. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play coy with me, sweetie. Your hair? That's one thing. But your makeup is _screaming _fuck-me-hard-against-my-front-door."

"I don't- we're at a crime scene, Angela. We're supposed to be working."

"You've been working alright."

"I don't understand your tone. I _am _working."

She doesn't care whether Angela or Hodgins or Fischer or anyone else in the vicinity knows that she has been with Booth in a romantic capacity tonight (as well as last night. And the five previous nights to that). But that doesn't mean she wants to open it up for discussion. She suspects Booth's reasons for dragging his feet on this issue differ from hers, but until she can define - to herself - these things that have changed for them, define how they now fit together in a way that is so-similar-but-not-quite-the-same as the way they have fit together since becoming partners, she has no desire to define these things to anyone else. Angela included.

Also, they are at a _crime scene_ and she's trying to do her job.

"You're really going to play it like this?"

Brennan finally puts down her brush and gives Angela her full attention. "I'm not 'playing' anything. Shouldn't you be taking photos?"

Angela gives her a look, snaps a picture, and continues to stare. "Since when are you so tight lipped about who you're seeing?"

"I was on a date."

"I figured that much out for myself."

"There's nothing else to tell, Angela. As you can see, it was interrupted."

"But _who_?"

At this point, irritation is beginning to surpass any other feelings Brennan has been experiencing, and as she picks up her brush and begins delicately clearing soil from the remains peaking out of the earth, she finds that she no longer cares what she reveals to Angela because the fallout can't be as bad as not being able to work.

"If I give you thirty seconds to ask your questions, will you leave me alone?"

"Absolutely," Angela agrees immediately.

"Proceed."

"Height. Build. Bedroom prowess."

A wink is tacked on with the last demand, but Brennan is barely paying attention.

"6'1. Muscular. Above average."

The clinical reply is recited as she briefly studies a fragment pulled from the clavicle before depositing it into a plastic tube.

"Above average? That's not a real answer. Come on, sweetie. I'd like to get the most out of my thirty seconds."

"We have had sexual intercourse twenty seven times in approximately..." she tilts her head slightly to think, "... eight different positions, in locations that include - but are not limited to - the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and, yes, my front door. I am very satisfied with our sexual compatibility. Please take two steps to your left; you're blocking my light."

It takes Angela a moment to process the last part of the sentence, but after a beat passes, she dutifully takes a large step in the direction Brennan had instructed.

"It's about time," she smiles.

Brennan smiles back and returns to the partially uncovered skeleton, and Angela finally, finally, loses interest (for the time being) and focuses on the task at hand.

And Brennan thinks that this is the end of it. In fact, she doesn't think about Booth or Angela or any of the personal matters they have on the back burner again until Booth wanders back to her side, notepad in hand.

"What have you got so far?"

"There's significant damage to the skull... I'm missing fragments of the temporal bone, the parietal bone..."

"So someone bashed her head in."

"It's too early to conclude such a thing."

Booth opens his mouth to respond before he notes Angela's close proximity and remembers his resolution to avoid being near her as much as possible.

"Let me know when you're done." It sounds lame even to his ears and he turns on his heel to make himself useful elsewhere. Only...

"Hold on there, Casanova."

He freezes in place and then turns ever so slowly toward the two women.

"You've got a little something on your collar."

Brennan's head snaps up at this, curious more than anything else to see this detail which Angela has spotted that she had not. Booth tugs comically at his shirt, craning his neck awkwardly in an attempt to follow Angela's gaze, and when he twists toward her, she can see the small dotting of lipstick that Angela had noticed immediately. She can't remember intentionally putting her mouth anywhere near his throat, and she's left to conclude that the transference must have occurred when they had tumbled onto the bed before leaving for dinner.

Booth pauses for a moment to glare suspiciously at Angela - because he's beginning to suspect that this is some sort of trick - but then he looks at _her_ and his expression turns slightly panicked. And Brennan realises that something in her face must look very, very guilty.

"Don't you have work to do?" To Booth's great relief, he manages to sound annoyed more so than uncomfortable.

Brennan gives her head a resigned shake and answers before Angela gets the chance. "I have already pointed that out."

"I can multitask."

Their mistake is in the wary look they exchange. The one that tells Angela that it's not_ his _secret or _her _secret, but a secret shared, and she is the only one who is not in the know.

And she can't have that.

"Wait a second." A smile begins to grow on Angela's lips. "Are you telling me-

"Booth is seeing someone," Brennan blurts.

Booth's gaze snaps back to her and she shrugs her shoulders, clearly willing to sacrifice him when it means that Angela will now be his problem and she can go back to work.

Except, it blows up in her face.

Angela's features sharpen. "You're a good height for a guy, Booth, right? Around 6'1?"

Booth is immediately reluctant to answer. Not because he has any real reason _not _to, but because he knows to be suspicious of any question posed by Angela under these kinds of circumstances. "Yes?"

She turns her head to look down at Brennan. "Muscular, wouldn't you say, Bren?"

Booth is still confused, but judging by his partner's incriminating flush, there is something happening here and it's not going to bode well for him. "I think I'm going to check on-

"Booth is 'your guy'. Oh my God. _Booth _is your against-the-front-door guy!"

"_What_? Bones, why would you-

"I didn't!" Brennan finally stands up. "Technically, I did disclose certain details regarding our relationship..." she's forced to pause when Angela releases a small, giddy noise of excitement, and she glares at her before continuing, "...but I didn't know that this was going to-

"Twenty seven times, huh, Booth?" Angela says with a flirty smile. It's just a little bit cruel, what she's doing, and she knows it. But God, seeing them flustered is _so much fun_. "Have the neighbours complained yet? Is there a video? Is it still safe for me to sit on the couch?"

Booth stands stunned for a moment, and then decides that he'd prefer the humiliation of a swift retreat to the humiliation of enduring this conversation for a second longer. He throws his hands up and bows out. "Yeah. I'm gonna go."

"Wait!" Brennan's protest is immediate and – though she would never admit it – just a touch anxious. "I think-

"Hey, you dug this hole. You pull yourself out of it."

"I thought you said relationships mean facing things together!"

"Not these things. Not Angela things. You are on your own."

"Coward."

"I love you too, Stud," Angela calls at his retreating frame.

Booth's only response is a wave of his hand as he walks away, and as he disappears into a crowd of technicians, Angela turns her attention back to her best friend.

"Touchy, isn't he?"

"_Work_, Angela," Brennan sighs as she crouches back down on the ground. "You've done enough."


	4. Chapter 4

RositaLG is not a big fan of babies all up in her show/fic. Naturally, this meant that while she was here, my muse went, "Babies? GREAT idea." And this happened. So anyone else who is not-a-big-fan-of-babies, maybe opt out of this update.

* * *

**demythologise, v.: Not every story needs to have a villain. Too often we create them, just to feel our lives have a plot.**

She gets pregnant again. It's something they've actually discussed this time (_high five, Bones! one for three!) _but it still happens far more quickly than she had expected and she is forced to conclude that Booth's sperm is every bit as contrary as Booth himself.

He's happy. She's known him for so many years and he's possibly the only person she reads well enough to (mostly) trust her gut instinct. Trust that even when he tells her he's fine and she has no valid reason not to believe him, if it feels wrong, if _he_ feels wrong, something probably is.

So while she knows he's happy, there's sadness as well. And every so often she catches this wistful look on his face and she feels as if she would trade anything in the world to just know why it's there.

They add to the nursery. Paint the walls a soft and comforting shade of green. Christine gets underfoot – they try to get things accomplished after her bedtime but it's like she senses how much they need her to sleep because she just _won't_ – and when they fall into bed at 5am, laughing a tad hysterically due to their exhaustion, Booth runs a hand through her hair and begins to laugh all over again.

She laughs because she's tired. She laughs because he laughs. She laughs because in these moments he's with her, one hundred percent, and though she doesn't lose sight of the fact that there is something missing with him, she finds it difficult to focus on anything outside the _good_ flowing between them. They survive, even when it's hard. She has nearly twelve years of data to support this. But it still feels good to laugh.

When she arrives at the lab, Angela makes an offhand comment about her new 'punk' style and Brennan realises that there are flecks of green paint in her ponytail.

And Booth's laughter from 5am suddenly makes sense.

("_Why didn't you tell me I had paint in my hair?"_

"_It's adorable, Bones. Besides, we were in such a hurry this morning, I forgot_.")

A month passes in this fashion. Being pregnant is a little more annoying this time around because she's as big as she had been the first time, only, she has a three year old and it turns out three year olds are damn fast.

But she makes it. They all make it. And through it all she feels Booth withdrawing slowly. Baby steps inching away from her, toward her, away from her. And the seesaw leaves her feeling more nauseous than the pregnancy.

* * *

Christine gets sick nine days before Brennan's due date, and the very same day, a body turns up at the Lincoln Memorial.

She stays with her daughter, and she contributes as much as she can from home while Booth divides his time between the field with Sweets and the lab with Cam/the interns. After some careful manoeuvring, Brennan settles on the couch with her daughter's head on her thigh and her laptop placed on her other side, and for the better part of an hour, this works; she can stroke Christine's hair as she sleeps, the close to constant ache in her lower back is somewhat lessened by the pillows arranged behind her, and there is plenty of productive data exchanged between her and the rest of the team.

When Christine stirs, Brennan is well prepared. She has medicine, water, dry cereal and diluted juice already laid out on the coffee table, and though she's aware of exactly how ill her daughter is, it still tugs at her heart a little bit when Christine can't even muster the strength to protest the bitter children's medication in the stubborn manner to which Brennan is accustomed.

"Mommy?" Christine mumbles.

"Yes?"

There's no verbal reply. Brennan takes one look at Christine's face and knows what's coming next, and though she had possessed the foresight to bring over a small wastepaper basket, she can't move quickly enough to reach it. She closes her eyes and gives herself a mental kick as Christine throws up all over the living room floor and then immediately bursts into tears.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she soothes, rubbing her hand in calming circles over Christine's small back. "Would you like some water, or will that make you sick again?"

Christine shrugs helplessly and Brennan pulls her closer. "Try a little bit of water, okay?"

Christine sniffles, but she's forced to stop crying in order to take careful sips from the plastic cup Brennan holds for her. Once that's done, Brennan arranges Christine's arms around her neck.

"Let's get you into the bath."

"Okay."

"You're going to have to help me a little bit," she instructs softly, gently tapping Christine's leg.

Christine knows this drill by now and she wraps her legs around her mother compliantly. With her weight now a little more evenly distributed, Brennan is able to lift her with relative ease.

It's easy to maintain perspective as she bathes her daughter, redresses her, and settles her downstairs on the couch once more. But by the time she's on the floor and scrubbing the carpet, Brennan can't help wishing she could trade places with Booth.

The guilt is immediate and she banishes the thought from her mind, and soon the carpet is clean, Christine is awake again and in need of her attention, and her perspective slips (relatively) neatly into place.

By the time Booth comes home, her back is throbbing painfully from hours of awkward bending, but Christine has been put to bed and though she and Booth are in one of their more complicated phases right now, she knows that he will take care of anything else their daughter needs tonight. The only thing that will stop her from sleeping is the seven and a half pound fetus pressed against her pelvis, and she's glad that they can work so well together even when it feels as if they'd rather not work with one another at all.

Two days later, Booth is still working their case and Christine is still ill. It makes sense that Brennan is the one to stay home; they generally take turns but the lab has already begun making adjustments in preparation of her upcoming maternity leave, and as a rule their team does not play well with other agents. Rationally, it's an easy decision to make. Irrationally, there's still the (increasingly difficult to suppress) notion that Booth is getting the better end of this arrangement, even though she knows it can't be helped.

She's moving Christine up to the master bedroom in the hopes that she can join her in an evening nap, when the key turns in the front door and Booth comes in much earlier than she had expected him.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hey." Booth is already frowning as he tosses his coat in the direction of the couch and immediately moves to take Christine out of her arms. "Bones, you shouldn't be carrying her."

"She's sick," Brennan responds tiredly. "She's uncomfortable, she can barely lift her head... I have a degree in kinesiology; I know how to lift her without injuring myself."

"I know. It just makes me nervous... you lose your balance sometimes-

"Booth, when I am the one staying home with her, I will take care of her my way. When _you _are staying home with her, you are welcome to carry her or not carry her as you see fit."

"You know that's not what I'm saying. It's not the same thing."

She's too tired to have a normal discussion – let alone an argument – with him right now. But she's not about to back down on this. So she leans against the banister and raises her chin, and hopes that if she stares at him long enough he'll give up on this and leave her the hell alone. She's irritated enough right now not to care one little bit whether or not she upsets him. Because she feels punch-drunk from lack of sleep and it's her turn to be moody and sullen beyond all reason.

The frown marring his features deepens. "You look awful."

"Thanks, Booth."

His only reply is a shake of his head before he gestures her forward and follows her up the stairs. When they reach the second floor, Booth stops her with a hand to her hip.

"Do you want her with you, or in her room?"

Brennan stands quietly as she weighs the two options, and Booth automatically begins to oscillate when Christine shifts in his arms.

"Are you going back to work tonight?"

He shakes his head again. "No. Not unless the lab calls."

"Her room is fine."

She watches him disappear into the bedroom down the hall before she turns into their room and closes the door. She thinks about changing her clothes, or possibly removing them entirely, but both options seem time consuming. So she climbs into bed and closes her eyes, and though she doesn't sleep, she listens to Booth move throughout the house they built together and is soothed by how well she knows this space.

It becomes obvious to her the next time her eyes flutter open that she must have drifted off, but it's still light outside, and for a minute she stays buried under the covers and lets her eyes flit aimlessly around the room. Two socked feet are crossed at the ankle just below her belly, and she follows them off the bed, into a chair, and finally up to Booth's face watching her intently.

"What are you doing?" she laughs huskily.

Booth shrugs. "Working. Keeping you company. Are you hungry?"

She burrows deeper into the blankets. "I ate just before you came home. But thank you."

Booth tosses the file in his lap onto the nightstand and then slides into the bed beside her. Brennan shuffles over to make room, and once they've settled on the pillows, bodies tangled together as much as her pregnancy will allow, he gives her a sheepish grin.

"I sort of skipped saying hello and jumped right into lecturing, didn't I?"

"Greetings were exchanged," she counters. "To be honest, my mind feels very... average... right now. It's possible I wouldn't have retained a more in depth discourse."

"I don't know about that; you managed to put me in my place just fine."

The smile playing across his mouth grows and it's infectious, so she smiles as well and they're right where they should be with one another.

"Christine?"

"She woke up a few minutes before you did, but she's out again."

"Good."

"You sure you don't want us to switch tomorrow?"

It's tempting. It really is. But they've divided the work this way for a reason. So she tells him as much even though she'd like to agree.

"This is the arrangement that makes sense," she says simply.

Booth puts an arm around her and tugs her closer, and she inhales his familiar smell.

"I love you," he declares, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

"I know, Booth."

"Try to sleep."

"I can't."

"Then we'll just lie here a while."

* * *

The baby is born at home. Brennan still feels strongly about this and though there is a great deal of debate (just as there had been the last time), Booth is the one who gives. She can tell that the idea makes him uncomfortable right up until she goes into labour, but he has to agree that it's less stressful (for him) than delivering their child in a barn. So there's that.

Afterward, he admits to her that it hadn't been as messy as he had envisioned. Plastic sheeting is set up before she delivers and taken down quickly and efficiently afterward, and their home still looks like their home by the time the trained professionals are out the door and they're alone. And she's comfortable. Happy. He sits next to her on their bed and they memorise the features of the newest addition to their family, and it's them against the world until Hodgins and Angela bring Christine back to the house along with the rest of their team and her father.

And they're good for a time. So good for so long that memory fades and Brennan begins to question whether or not any of it had truly been as off as it had seemed. But that is the way these things tend to go with them; they can go from _this _to _wrong _and back again in the span of a few weeks, and the emotional whiplash is the one thing she hasn't quite managed to get used to even after all this time.

In the end, it's the mundane task of washing dishes that loops them back around to where they had been when it had first struck her that there was something not quite right. The dishwasher's broken, thanks to Christine and Michael-Vincent playing house under the not-so-careful-supervision of her father. They have plans to replace it over the weekend but they just don't have the time during the week, so Brennan washes and Booth rinses, and they chat amicably about their growing progeny's latest doctor's appointment until Brennan has a thought.

"Christine was approximately this age when you had her baptised... have you already made the arrangements?"

Booth doesn't flinch. He doesn't look at her either, though. And as he casually removes a plate from the hot water and places it in the draining bin to his right, something clicks into place.

Hot and cold. Moments of intimacy bracketed by moments of polite, platonic, sometimes cool distance.

_If I get scared, I'll hug you._

_There's a line._

_I believe in giving this a chance._

_I've gotta move on._

Brennan can understand the correlation between fear and distance. She can understand a pattern she recognises from a time long ago when he hadn't been able to strike a balance between wanting her and protecting himself. It hits her so hard she feels physically winded, and it's partially because it seems so simple now, it upsets her that she hadn't figured it out before. But it's also partially because he's let this fester for nearly half a year and if there had ever been anything he should have just _discussed _with her, this would be it.

"I figure I've had my turn, Bones. We're equal parents who believe in two different things... I got one kid, you get the other. Fair is fair and all that, right?"

Brennan hesitates with her arm half extended to drop the pot she's just washed into his sink. "You believe in an afterlife."

"Yeah. I do."

"Christine's baptised."

"I know, Bones," he chuckles. "I was there."

"I do not believe in God. The ceremony only means something to me because I know it means something to you."

Booth takes the pot out of his sink and balances it in the dish rack. "There you go then. We don't need to have one."

They work in silence as she organises her argument. And just when Booth thinks she's going to leave it alone (because though he should know better, he _always _has this moment where he thinks she might, this once, leave it alone), she starts the conversation again.

"You _do _believe in God. And heaven and hell and baptisms. I am finding it difficult to believe that you could be satisfied saving the soul of one child and not the other."

"Bones-

"I'm not mocking you! I'm serious. Your inconsistency is unsettling."

The dishes are abandoned and their eye contact becomes a battle of wills, because while their thoughts are in the same place, they're both equally convinced that the other should be the one to come out and _say _it.

It's been almost twelve years, but there are still days when on a maturity scale, it feels more like one.

Unfortunately, the baby takes the decision out of their hands by demanding to be fed, and they're forced to call a draw. By the time Brennan returns, Booth has finished the dishes and disappeared from the kitchen. Before she can find him she gets a call from Cam regarding their case and some markings Brennan had found earlier that day, and because Brennan and Booth's timing is as impeccable as it has always been, the issue goes unresolved.

* * *

She corners him in his office. Booth's guard is down because they're in professional territory, so he barely looks up when she closes the door behind her because the only thing he's expecting is a progress report on their case.

He waves a stack of papers in her direction. "Can you explain this to me? Cam brought these over but we didn't get a chance to review them. Most of it's pretty clear but-

"What happened with Christine was an anomaly. You can't behave as if you're expecting me to run off with our children. It's not fair."

As always, once Brennan decides on a course of action, she is all in.

Booth stares blankly for a moment, but once he's forced to conclude that this exchange is not, in fact, a terrible dream, he clears his throat and drops the documents on his desk.

"I don't think that, Bones."

There's a flash of confusion across her face. Followed by uncertainty and exasperation and finally anger. Then she falls roughly into the chair across from him. "Then what is your problem?"

He wants to assure her that that the thought has never crossed his mind. He also wants to tell her the truth. The problem with this is, these are opposing approaches and the _truth _is embarrassing.

Because it is not a matter of trust. It is a matter of living wide and accepting pain and being strong because of it, and a host of other ideals he has tried to impart on her over the years without ever fully learning how to embrace them himself.

So he deflects. Because he just needs a moment longer to _think_.

"Is this about the baptism?"

But Brennan cannot stand the thought of dancing around this issue any longer. And the transparency of his attempt causes frustration and anger to swell together inside of her.

"This is about not trusting your partner and _punishing _me for something that occurred more than three years ago. I can't change what happened, Booth. And you should have considered your feelings on this before we agreed to have another child."

She sits back in the chair, though her body language is still screaming confrontation. Her eyes are bright and he watches her chest rise and fall furiously with each breath, and though the odds are high she'll reject the contact, he rounds his desk, sits in the chair beside her, and pulls it close until his knee is brushing hers.

"I trust you," he says lowly. Sincerely. And a little bit of the fire in her eyes is replaced with relief. Though she's still very careful to ignore the physical connection he's trying to establish. "Bones, it happened, okay? Like you said, there's no changing it. And we have a good thing going."

"Then _explain _to me why you don't want a baptism. Explain to me why I keep catching you looking at me like-

"Like I'm expecting it to all fall apart? Come on, Bones. You don't need me to explain that to you. You know what that feels like."

His voice is so soft, and he's looking at her in that way which makes her feel as if he's seeing through to the very core of her being. And most of the fight goes out as quickly as it had come.

"It's you," she says tentatively. "Not me."

There is a great deal of room for this to be misinterpreted, but this is not going to be one of those days for them. She's taken her own experiences with fear and waiting, the emotions that have little to do with Booth and everything to do with how she processes, and she's applied these to him. And he understands.

"Yes."

"You can't choose to just… not talk about things that concern me as well as you." She's resigned now more than anything else and it makes Booth feel guilty, because there are few feelings worse than the thought that someone you love very much may be giving up. "It makes you angry when I have difficulty sharing my feelings. But I believe I feel more… sad… than angry. Though there is anger as well."

His hand begins to trace patterns over her knee and she wishes he'd stop. It makes it difficult for her to concentrate, but she doubts he would even realise he's doing it unless she pulls away. And then it would become a rejection.

Being in a relationship is, on occasion, much harder than living alone had ever been.

But Booth notices her discomfort and consciously relaxes his fingers. "I get being angry. And… sad."

In their ensuring silence, the chatter outside his closed door seems louder. The phones seem shriller. Booth is pretty sure he can hear the spider occupying the far corner spinning its web.

"Are we damaged, Booth?"

And he hears the real question. _How _damaged. How many more days, weeks, months, years before this is okay.

"A little." He shrugs. "It's a mark, Bones. Marks add character."

"We have a great deal of character."

"That we do."

Her knee moves half an inch in his direction. The motion is small, but he understands this, too.

"We should have a baptism," she says.

"We will. I shouldn't have said that, Bones. You caught me off guard... I wasn't quite ready to think about it."

Once the initial sting has had a chance to fade, the difficult part is no longer forgiving one another for stupid things said in the heat of the moment. Which is good, because they both have the tendency to say and do _a lot _of stupid things. So Brennan relaxes in her chair.

"I would like it if in the future, you would simply tell me you need space. It's less worrisome."

"I don't ever want space when it comes to you." Booth pauses and wavers slightly as he thinks this over. "I _rarely _want space when it comes to you," he amends. "Mostly, I just occasionally need a little time."

Brennan absorbs this and then nods. "Time is... acceptable. Sometimes I require time as well."

The tension in the room lessens by a degree, and Brennan picks up the sheaf of papers sitting on Booth's desk. Because, even now, there are days when baby steps are best.

"What page?"

Booth leans forward. "Thirteen. This little chart here..."

She begins a thorough explanation of the data, and when she stands to return to the lab, he stands as well and pulls her into a quick, impulsive hug. His face presses into her hair, and she smiles.

"I'll see you around, Booth," she says casually as she pulls away and opens his office door.

The confident smirk he gives her in return makes her stomach flutter. "See you around, Bones."


	5. Chapter 5

Once upon a time (yesterday), a girl named sunsetdreamer locked herself out of the hotel room she was sharing with RositaLG and JMHaughey, after she went for a midnight stroll and accidentally demagnetised the strip of her keycard (because she is not especially bright, and this sort of thing happens to her all the time). This chapter is the result of not feeling stressed out about the situation enough to talk to the dude at the front desk to have it resolved.

Silly. Whimsical. Basically the way I'm feeling right now.

* * *

**estimate, v.: It should not feel like a trick question when someone asks you how long we've been together.**

It usually begins with dinners that they are forced by their employers to attend. Everyone _else _knows their history and it's so rare for them to venture outside their circles these days, they haven't given serious thought to this answer.

Though, based on the increasing confusion and debate it seems to be generating, it's possibly something that they should consider.

"So, how long have you been working together?"

"Eleven years."

"Twelve years."

Their answers are simultaneous, and though the other party at their table (whose only concern had been small talk, with no notion that his question would prove to be such a difficult one) gives them a puzzled frown, Brennan and Booth are too busy eyeing one another dubiously to notice.

"We've talked about this," Booth states.

"Yes, we have," Brennan returns definitively. This is a new thing he seems to find funny. Probably because she so very much does not. "Which proves you're _choosing _to be unreasonably stubborn on the subject."

"There've been other years we've barely seen one another and since you don't question those, the first year should count, too."

"It was _one _case. There was no history between us. I didn't even know you."

"You knew me enough to almost have sex with me," Booth mutters just loud enough for her to hear.

Third party forgotten, Brennan's eyes narrow, because she understands that he's baiting her (most likely because these events bore him just as much now as ever), but taking the high road – allowing him the last word when she's the one in the right – is just not in her nature.

"The operative word in that statement is 'almost' and it in no way alters the truth of what I just said."

Booth stares. Brennan stares back. Eventually they both remember the unfortunate scientist who will _never again_ submit his confirmation _just_ too late to be seated with anyone he knows, and Booth gives his partner a wink.

"Eleven years."

The answer again comes simultaneously, and it's met with a polite nod. "That's... a long time to be working with your spouse."

"We're not married," Brennan dismisses automatically. Because _we're not married _has replaced _we're not sleeping together _and it's a phrase repeated so often, it just rolls off the tongue.

"I'm so sorry," her colleague shifts uncomfortably. "I'm new and you just seemed... couple-y. I didn't mean to-

"You are correct in assuming that we have a sexual relationship-

"_Bones_."

-but we do not require paperwork to define us."

"Great," Booth says sardonically. "Now he thinks we're partners who happen to screw around."

"That's hardly what I said, Booth."

Booth turns to their reluctant companion and clarifies. Because he, too, has a difficult time taking the high road and allowing her to have the last word.

"We're not just... I mean we don't... we live together. We have a daughter. She's three and a half."

"Right." There's another polite nod. He's ready to let the conversation lapse and return to being an invisible presence at the table. But all the other guests seated around him have broken off into conversations of their own, and the FBI agent appears to be studying him, searching for signs of judgement, so he tries to relax (all the while wishing he had just. Kept. Quiet).

"Eleven years is a long time to be with anyone. Married or not."

For the second time, Booth finds himself clarifying. Though this time he's not quite sure why. "Not quite eleven. More like four and a half."

And then it begins again.

"Just under four years," Brennan contradicts him absently around a sip of wine.

Booth hangs his head in exaggerated exhaustion and sighs. Loudly.

"What?" she defends.

"Nothing, Bones. Go ahead. Explain to me why I'm losing more time."

"While I was... pleased, to be close to you again, I wasn't confident that such a personal relationship between us could be sustained until a much later date."

"The clock doesn't start when you feel secure in the relationship, Bones, it starts at the beginning."

"According to whom?"

"To _everyone_."

She can't help rolling her eyes when he makes these kinds of sweeping generalisations. "My method of timekeeping is more meaningful."

Booth is momentarily stumped; he has yet to learn how to counter her unique brand of sentimentality. Eleven (or twelve) years and he is still caught off guard by how touching she can be without trying.

"I'll give you that, but not even four years? Come on."

Brennan shrugs again and glances warily at their audience. "It took us a long time to be okay, Booth."

He acknowledges this silently, and they sit without saying a word while the newest Jeffersonian employee vows to never ask anyone another question ever again.

And then a tall, dark haired woman glides up to their table and becomes his unexpected rescuer.

"Are we having fun?"

"Angela." Brennan notes her friend's presence with surprise. "Hi."

"Hey. What's up the table arrangements? We couldn't be further away from you guys."

"I believe Cam is attempting to make a point of some sort," Brennan explains wryly. "I did not heed her deadline regarding confirmation of attendance. At the time, I didn't think it was important."

"Well, I delivered mine on time and this is just as much a punishment for me as it is for you." She peruses the table with an expert eye and hones in on one person in particular. "You. We haven't met; I'm Angela."

Feeling increasingly like an outsider, the distant colleague clears his throat nervously in response to her disarming smile. "Sam... I'm new."

That's great, Sam. Listen, we're going to switch seats for a little while, okay? Table three; by the bar, you can't miss it."

"What? I don't-

"Go. Quickly."

Mentally questioning why he would consider arguing given that he's been fervently hoping for a way out, Sam easily agrees.

"Sure. Yeah. Of course." He jumps back from the table and flushes when his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. "It was nice meeting you all."

As he hurries away, he catches the beginnings of a very sordid and _personal _sounding story from Angela, and he exhales in relief.

Until he seats himself at table three and is immediately drawn into a heated discussion between a lanky psychologist (the name has something to do with candy, but damned if he can remember it), a passionate entomologist, and a self-proclaimed lowly intern, about the merit of a newly released action/adventure film he has yet to have seen.

And the term 'spoiler' evidently means nothing to any of them.

Sam sinks down in his chair and thanks his lucky stars that his job does not fall under forensics.

* * *

Brennan removes her shoes the moment that she and Booth step out of the cab onto their driveway, and it's one of those small things that makes Booth feel, everywhere, exactly how much he loves her. When she looks up, flimsy straps dangling loosely from three fingers, he reaches for her and smiles as she takes his hand and leans into his side without protest.

She's had a little bit to drink and so has he, and he feels good, because there is nothing quite like when they are in sync.

But, as they leisurely stroll toward the front door, reflecting on all the ways that they are in sync reminds Booth of how out of sync they had been earlier.

"Hey," he squeezes her hand to get her attention. "We gotta get these dates sorted out sometime, Bones. Even I'm getting confused now when it comes up."

Brennan chuckles. "I suppose. If it's important to you."

"Someday."

"Someday."

"But not today."

It's phrased as a statement, but Brennan hears the question. They reach the front door, and she releases his hand to cup his cheek while he fumbles with the key in the lock.

"Is it very important we discuss it today?" she asks lowly, leaning close enough into his space for him to feel the soft breeze of her breath against his face.

"Nah," he decides. He pushes the door open and kisses her, walking her backward into the house. "I can live with a little confusion."


End file.
